The Melía Cohiba Hotel is about a block away from our building. It is a five-star hotel with a pool and several restaurants of a non-Cuban variety. We decided that we would try to infiltrate said location for an afternoon ('cause we're troublemakers like that).
Strolling into the pizzeria (which is conveniently very close to the pool) we sauntered toward the host, waiting to be seated. Then we noticed that we were the only customers in the whole place.
"We don't open until one," the host told us. It was 12:15. "Oh, okay, thank you," one of us said, and we left, our confidence unshaken by the event. We were still playing it cool.
Sauntering out to the pool area, we surveyed the astroturf-surrounded oasis and looked around for some good lounge chairs on which we could wait until one o'clock (at which time we would feast). Choosing a snazzy cabana with wooden sunchairs, we sat down and tried hard to look as five-star-hotel-guest-esque as humanly possible (even though we're just four gals between the ages 20 and 23 who have been in Cuba so long that the mere sight of olive oil makes us misty-eyed with joy, and the thought of public toilet seats and toilet paper makes us go to the bathroom even when we don't have to, just to support the cause).
Having been to the pizzeria before, we had scoped out the protocol for the pool situation. The pasty, rich Europeans in question would walk to the towel counter where they would present their room key, permitting them to have a royal blue towel which says the hotel's name upon it (vertically). Knowing the protocol did not mean that we had a plan. We were just planning on playing dumb.
Soon after assuming our sophisticated stances in the chosen chairs, a surly man in a white polo came over to us, asking if we needed towels. (Once again, this was in Spanish, but I'm too lazy to translate.)
"Oh no, we're fine," I said, attempting to look as comfortable as possible on the wooden-plank chair unadorned by terrycloth.
"Yeah, we're good," said Courtney.
"Room number and key?" white polo asked.
"Uh"
"Well"
(Steph made the genius decision to stare at her purse blankly, as if to desperately wish for a room key's appearance from within.)
"We don't have one."
"Oh no?" said white polo, visions of power trips dancing in his head.
"Look, here's the situation. We're here to have lunch, but the place isn't open yet, so we thought we could sit here for a bit until then," Courtney admitted. It was a good story, but our clearly-visible bathing suits underneath our clothes may have tipped white polo off to our malicious intent.
"The pool area is for guests only. You're going to have to leave."
He had won the battle, but we would win the war. We ended up going to a different restaurant that was directly poolside and was already open, and ate there. We befriended the waiter who was a delightful, friendly, chubby Cuban man who didn't hate us like white polo did. We decided to ask him about the whole using-the-pool-even-though-we're-not-guests situation. He went and talked to a different towel guy, then returned to the table, saying that one of us should go talk to the guy there after we're done eating.
Friendly, chubby had an honest face, so we decided to trust him as an informant in our mission. Going over to talk to the other towel guy, we were playing it cool, but made sure to smile and giggle a tad. Other towel guy turned out to be a good ally - give him a "tip," and he would give us towels for the day. Done and done.
So we triumphantly found ourselves some new chairs right up by the pool, and settled in with our royal blue Melía Cohiba towels and reading assignment for class. Life was good.
A couple hours later, an eager young chap decided to strike up a conversation with the group of us. Everyone else ignored him and his annoying calls over to us, leaving me to the proverbial wolves. Awkward conversation ensued, including a discussion of Barcelona (where he and the group of [presumably ridiculously rich business]men he was with are from) and how I should really go there some time (gag). And also Boston we discussed, or really just how overjoyed he was to see SQUIRRELS CLIMB UP THE TREES there. (I've noticed this before, too: Europeans LOVE squirrels.)
"My English is not that good," he said to me in Spanish.
"Somehow I don't have trouble believing that," I answered in English and Steph laughed. Young Chap (whom I found out was named Valentine) was still eager to keep the conversation going, but I managed to ignore him after he introduced me to all the other men he was with, including a man who looked exactly like Anthony Hopkins (circa Silence of The Lambs). He introduced me to him as Anthony, and told me immediately of his similarity to Mr. Hopkins. "Yup, Hannibal Lector," I replied.
A little while later, the men when swimming, at which time they figured conversation should be attempted yet again. Anthony Hopkins had taken a liking to Emma, whom he decided to direct his catcalls toward for awhile. Anthony proved to be the most enthusiastic of the group of men, yelling things to us quite frequently after we were introduced.
When they were about to go, Anthony decided to make one final attempt at courting us/his soulmate Emma. That was when I lost my temper and I decided to say something. First I said it in English to him, which he did not understand. Then I said it in Spanish:
Me: I wish you knew English so that I would be able to tell you all the things I am thinking.
[All five men, intrigued, crowd around]
Anthony: ¿Sí?
Me: Sí. I would tell you that you lack respect for women
Anthony: No, no, no.
Me: And, I don't know the word in Spanish,
Anthony: Mmm?
Me: But I would tell you that you are disgusting.
Anthony: Eh?
Me: Repulsive.
One of them who understands suddenly: Oh, no no no.
Me: Sí, sí.
Anthony: Ah, I see the American women are prudes, eh?
Other guys: Oh, whoaaa.
(Anthony has a telephone conversation whilst the other four have a [slightly anxious] pow-wow)
Anthony: I do not lack respect for women.
Me: Oh no?
Anthony: I am merely telling a woman that she is pretty [the Spanish word for pretty is linda]. It is part of our culture. How is that lack of respect?
Me: You guys were bothering us the whole time you've been here.
Anthony: I am not bothering you if I say that you are pretty.
Me: Well..
Anthony: Yes?
Me: Well, in my mind, all humans are equal. And I would never start bothering you and your friends, harassing them, telling them that they are pretty.
Anthony: Do you know what "linda" means?
Me: Yes, of course.
Anthony: What does it mean?
Me: Pretty.
Anthony: Um, yeah, you're right.
Steph: And when you stand there HISSING at us?
Anthony: Um, well..
Valentine: C'mon, lindo, time to go.
The group of them then began to retreat to the hotel, the Cuban one turning back to us trying to apologize for the other ones' behavior, calling them crazy. Oh, but we know better. There's no doubt that he does the same exact thing to women on other occasions.
As the men ran away, we resumed our nonchalant sunbathing on our royal blue towels, reading our reading assignments, and sipping on strawberry-banana milkshakes (double the amount free, courtesy of the delightful, friendly, chubby waiter). Win.
Just an idea what kind of men were at the pool (though they weren't the ones that harassed us):
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